GENERATION I

The lyrics are all mine.
The image was generated using Leonardo.ai.
The voice and music were generated using Suno.com.

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GENERATION I

I'm well versed in being fervently cursed now/
All words of my work come before me,
with each round,
like genes, and not mine, which she thinks are better and perfect now/
My newest generation of imagination is the only way she will ever equate me with fascination/
There's not a ball in her court, but a court in her house/
I have no chance. I was born a louse/
So, I guess my words and my worth are the same; sworn in now/
I have a lot of poor lines that I was born to say,
in having a lot of sour roles, which I was born to play,
as a lonely fuckin' outcast in the outer lane,
drifting into outer space in pursuit of a date
as she lifts me up, like Everest,
then tells me there's no oxygen,
but gives me helium instead,
to get me out of her open pen,
like I'm tears for ink she can't use in a broken pen/
I guess I'm on the house and free;
merely complimentary/
I'm only a sidenote; being granted a subprime loan of her affection and no hope/
I lean toward her a touch/
She believes I'm patting her and apprehension becomes a backpack between us on a seat on a bus/
I've gotta get a grip, like apprehension means that;
grab myself and toss it out. She will never need that/
I am just some White trash; not even a trash bag/
And not even undergoing plastic surgery would be giving me a hand/
I don't want the upper hand. I just wanna feel loved/
But I write this up,
like it's an uppercut of lines that if she finds will fuck me up,
when she spells it out in no uncertain terms that what I write is right,
and I simply said it better than she ever could that 'I'm not her type'/
Every time I slip up, I whip up a line/
Given time, I'll find it's so fine it slides into minds; comes to mine; mind,
but can I ever write a line to ride a line into her mind?/
Such parking spots cost a lifetime of tries,
and I know I'm crossing lines thinking only about some drive/
I rise sans shine, but I see stars in daylight that might just be my crossed fingers and fairies of prayers before my eyes,
'coz only being lucky everywhere would make me someone she could bear to follow; like/
If only I were Irish, like I wish, luck would not be quite as hard to swallow, right?/
But I'm more a leper than a leprechaun and green with only envy, in envying every ordinary man in her life/
Tense turns imperfect from perfect/
I had finished, then was finishing, worrying when I was with her, but now wonder if she was ever seeing me/
I wish I had an eye for that but I'm just caught inside a storm's, frequently/
The wind is her messages; takes me by storm, but I wait for more and never catch 'em, since hers were never meant for me at all/
I'm feeling weak; certainly with no words for describing this being provided to me/
They're for thousands of her friends, and I'm just knocking on a door;
knocking on wood to make a point, but now with nails moving through my pores/
I wouldn't pause in pouring out my heart to her;
calling her,
but I wasn't born a Hindu, so I know my rich blood's poor/